to get a sandwich
February 7, 2022
This is a response to the Day 1 prompt of StoryADay, a month-long writing challenge that provides daily prompts for writers to respond to.
Prompt:
There is a point, in the distance, that your character very badly wants to reach. What is it?
What is the point from which they’ve started out, what are they willing to do to get to that point in the distance? What will they sacrifice?
The bridge is the point between those two places. The bridge is where what they must do to get there, what they’re willing to sacrifice, and the consequences of those decisions coexist.
Write their story, on the bridge.
“Where the heck does this go?”
Gibran paced back and forth across the same stretch of tiles between the Downtown C/K/L trains and stairs that unlocked the Bronx. Words like “express” held little directional value. It made less sense that some trains were numbers, while others were letters. The New York Metro resembled spaghetti in moments like this, when he was teetering on the edge of stress and utter panic, when one architect’s confusing signs could end a day’s worth of meticulous plans. Looks like Katz was out for the day. So much for the Dream Drools.
Gibran didn’t exactly have a knack for rational thought in distressing times. He was much more of the break-down-and-cry type, despite being a full-grown 6’2” man with a macho voice and thick French mustache (think Pink Panther). Fuck society’s expectations for masculinity. Fuck these stupid signs and the city government for letting such an abomination become a tourist trap. Fuck packed Sunday plans.
As the minutes flew by, Gibran didn’t feel any more ready to think. He couldn’t move on without a good scream or cry and complete public humiliation. He chose the former. Mustering up all the trapped energy within him, he let out a bloodcurdling shriek that echoed down the ashy walls, releasing not just frustrations from a foreign transit system but also his argument with Sallie, looming parental expectations, a fridge full of expiring foods, four client deadlines from work, and last-minute Christmas gift ideas, drawing for a split-second the attention of a city that never stopped nor cared to look. Though that instant passed as quickly as it came—street performers began juggling their batons again, beggars continued to beg, and the stilt-walkers resumed their walking—it left Gibran in the headspace he hoped it would. He took back the breath that left his head reeling, blinking out the stars in his peripheral vision and fixating on the closest stranger. Sauntering over to the jogger with a red afro and Ronald McDonald face paint (clearly a local), he asked gruffly, “Sir, could you point me to the train that will take me to Katz Deli?”